The Parent Trap

It’s not everyday I get to help my third grade daughter with her spelling.

But it is every week.

She has a vocabulary test on Fridays.

And that means Thursday night we get to study.

Together.

Now I realized way before I could spell Foxworthy that I am no longer smarter than a fifth grader.

Third Grade spelling, that's different.

Breeng it on!

Eleven of the 15 words on my daughter’s list this week had four letters or less.

And I’m excellent with four letter words.

Her words were SO easy this week, I decided to bring a little extra challenge to this party.

I asked her to spell CROP, which was on her list.

Then I asked her to spell CRAP, which was not.

I asked her to spell SOCK.

On the list.

Then SUCK.

Not on the list.

I asked her to spell SHOT.

Then I .... stopped.

We both smiled.

That’s always the goal.

But the bottom line is my seven year-old got every word right.

Even the bad ones.

Child Services, line 4.

Hey, I learned a long time ago that the parenting handbook comes in many different shapes.

And sizes.

And languages.

There are no rules.

Except the ones you make.

What I do in my house.

May not work in yours.

And what you do in your house.

Oh, puh-lease.

The goal I have as a parent is to always be there for my kids.

Thankfully unemployment helped me get a whole lot closer to that goal.

But the bottom line is you only get one chance at being a parent.

Or in the case of Octomom, 14 chances.

Hey, who am I to judge?

I can say without any doubt, I am a way better parent today than I was when this ride began.

14+ years ago.

It’s funny what a little age.

And a little Tequila.

Can do for you.

I have mellowed out quite a bit since becoming a dad.

Well, since becoming a seasoned dad.

The first few years were Rough.

With a capital R.

But now I have a plan.

I really try hard not to yell at the kids.

Believe it or not, they don’t like it.

I really try hard to be their friend.

Even though all the books tell you not to.

And I really try hard to make sure they know how I feel about them.

Every day.

I love all three of my kids equally.

Even though I tell each one of them that THEY are my favorite.

There is nothing better in this world than spending a day with the kids.

A baseball game.

A trip to McDonalds.

A night by the TV.

It doesn’t really matter.

It’s always special.

Very special.

Like last Sunday night.

I was watching the Raiders game with my 12-year old son.

Unfortunately I passed along my passion for the Silver and Black to my boy.

Now we are both miserable.

Midway through the first quarter, my seven year-old daughter came down to join us.

And she sat on my lap.

Special.

“Aargh me mateys” she said. “Where’s my pot of gold?”

“That’s my pirate mixed with a leprechaun.”

“I call it a Pirachaun.”

Special.

Not sure where that one came from.

Maybe it was the Raiders eye patch.

But something attracted her to the game.

Perhaps the 4-3 defense.

Or the wildcat formation.

Or maybe it was just sitting on dad’s lap.

No matter the reason.

She stayed for the rest of the first half.

Which is more of the Raiders than I can usually handle.

We talked about the game.

The teams.

And some of the players.

It was a great moment to be a parent.

But just when I thought I had made her a true fan, she fired this one at me.

“Why aren’t they playing flag football?”

“Violence is never the answer.”

Good point.

I said.

Realizing there was still a lot more work to be done.

Extra Special Happy Hour

There were about three minutes left in happy hour.

When I started crying.

Literally.

Tears coming out of my eyes.

Amazingly, it had nothing to do with the end of happy hour.

By that point we had pretty much wiped out the entire extra-value menu.

• 3 orders of chicken wings

• 2 plates of ahi tuna

• 1 bbq ribs

• 1 calamari

• 1 fried mushroom

• And six beers

Jenny Craig here we come.

Fortunately there were three of us.

So I only consumed 1/3 of the 10,000 calories.

I was midway through one of them Thai Wings when my phone rang.

It was my wife.

Normally she knows better than to disrupt me during this holiest hour of the day.

But I answered anyway.

And I’m glad that I did.

She started off the conversation by notifying me that we have done a great job as parents.

“Awwww,” I said.

But “HURRY UP, HAPPY HOUR ENDS IN THREE MINUTES!”

Is what I thought.

But she continued.

She told me one of the parents at her school came up to her today.

To talk about our 12-year old son.

Naturally her first thought was.... “what did he do now?”

But as the story continued, she quickly realized that this story was different.

This story was special.

It goes a little something like this....

Last week my son started middle school.

7th grade.

A pretty big deal.

For us.

A giant deal.

For a 12-year old.

He’s been in the same school for a few years now.

But this is the year he becomes one of the big boys.

The boy who gets a locker.

The boy who gets some freedom.

And the boy who gets to sit wherever he wants for lunch. 

During his lunch break on Thursday, my boy was sitting with a bunch of his boys in the cafeteria.

Just like he always does.

As he prepared to woof down his meal, his eyes wandered.

To another table.

Another table of seventh grade boys.

The cool guys.

Well as these... cool guys... were getting ready to enjoy their lunch.

They were joined by another boy from their grade.

A “special” boy.

A “slow” boy.

A boy who spends part of his day in a different part of the school.

Learning at a different level.

Well apparently the cool kids didn’t like the idea of a new lunch partner.

Or maybe there wasn’t enough room for all the cool people.

Or maybe they didn’t like the idea of that lunch partner. 

Whatever the reason.

They all got up.

One by one.

And left the table.

Leaving the “special” boy not feeling so special.

All by himself.

A feeling he’s probably felt.

More than once.

Now it would’ve been very easy for my son.

Or any 12-year old boy.

To see this, ignore it and go on with their lunch.

And their day.

But apparently it wasn’t easy for my son.

In fact when he saw the boy sitting all alone at the table.

He put his stomach on hold.

And let his heart take over.

My son picked up his lunch.

Got up from his table.

And joined the other boy.

For a special lunch.

For two.

One of the moms saw the whole thing and quickly reported back to my wife.

As my wife started sharing this story with me, I quickly figured out where it was headed.

And before she was done.

I was finished.

With tears filling up in my eyes.

Not the first time I’ve broken down at the end of happy hour.

And not the first time I’ve cried in my beer.


But this time it was for a good reason.

The Longest All-Star Game

The 2002 MLB All-Star Game was one to remember.

It was the 73rd Game of Stars.

The one that changed it all.

Milwaukee, Wisconsin.

July 9.

A 7-7 tie at the end of 11 innings.

Game over.

No winner.

But plenty of losers.

Including the Commissioner of Baseball.

Who called this a “very regrettable situation.”

If a tie is like kissing your sister.

This was like kissing your sister.

In the middle of town square.

With a spotlight on your face.

At high noon.

On national television.

In primetime.

The two managers tried to tell us... 

“Both teams are winners.”

and 

“The show was good for the fans.”

Sure.

If you would’ve preferred a draw between Rocky and Apollo Creed.

Or if you enjoyed the cut to black at the end of The Sopranos.

Baseball got ripped.

Endlessly.

And they pretty much deserved it.

How in the world did the game that has no clock.

Run out of time.

And end in a tie.

That game held special meaning for me.

Not because of the game.

That was not my first midsummer classic.

Not my fourth.

Or fifth.

If my math is right, it was the ninth All-Star Game that I attended.

But the first without my dad.

A massive heart attack took him 10 days earlier.

But whose counting.

Yes, 10 days after my dad died.

Suddenly.

I’m flying cross country.

To go to a baseball game.

Really?

Really!

Of course, “he would’ve wanted it that way.”

Right.

Actually, he would’ve wanted it that way.

Truth be told, he would’ve wanted to be there himself.

But instead he got to watch the game from the clouds.

With the stars.

Babe Ruth.

Lou Gehrig.

It’s hard to believe that was just nine years ago.

It feels like a billion.

In July of 2002 I was working.

In TV.

My job was to cover big sporting events.

And in the second week of July.

On a Tuesday night.

There is no bigger sporting event than the Major League Baseball All-Star Game.

So I got on that plane and went.

2,057 miles.

Give or take.

I remember riding on the bus to get my rental car.

When my phone rang.

I flipped open the phone to see who was calling.

Because that’s what we did before iPhones.

And the caller ID almost made me pass out.

The name that came up on my screen.

Was my dad.

I guess I forgot to change his name in my contact list.

Or maybe he forgot to tell me something before he left.

Actually it was his wife calling.

From their home.

But seeing his name gave me quite the jolt.

My dad was well known in the baseball world.

He worked in the sport for many years.

So being at the All-Star Game.

10 days after he died.

Was kinda like a memorial service.

That wouldn’t end.

Don’t get me wrong.

I certainly appreciated hearing kind words.

From everybody.

But if I was looking for a place to clear my head.

This wasn’t it.

The night before the big game I stopped by the hotel bar.

To get a drink.

Or two.

Well, those drinks took me deep into the AM.

We actually closed down the place.

Or so we thought.

Through a friend of a friend we ended up sitting at the bar with a big time baseball exec.

Who didn’t know me.

And didn’t know my dad.

When everyone was ushered out at 2am.

Or was it 3?

We were ushered in.

To another room.

Where we stayed hydrated.

Until 6 in the morning.

I’m not sure if that’s exactly what I needed.

Or exactly what I didn’t need.

But it seemed to work.

Taking my mind away from where it had lived for the previous ten days.

Once the sun started peering through the closed blinds.

We knew it was time to go.

So we headed out into the lobby.

Where within seconds.

I ran into a former player.

Who knew my dad.

Very well.

And it started all over again.

Quite A Parent

There were a lot of high points in Cooperstown last week.

There were a lot of low points too.

The 18-0 loss.

The 15-2 loss.

The 22-0 loss.

The 16-2 loss.

The 6-5 loss.

In extra innings.

Don’t forget the 15-0 loss.

Those were all low points.

But the lowest of the lows for me was when I got called out by an umpire.

It didn’t happen on the field.

Or in the dugout.

It happened right in the middle of the complex.

We had just finished the 15-0 loss when I decided to give my son a piece of my mind.

Timing is everything.

It had nothing to do with the 15.

Or the 0.

Or the loss.

It had to do with his character.

He had done something that I really had a problem with.

And I felt like he needed to hear what I had to say.

So I pulled him aside and started chewing.

Unfortunately mid-chew an umpire walked right past us.

“Son, are you having fun?”, he said.

“Not at the moment,” I responded.

“Yeah.  I can tell,” said the umpire.

Who just kept walking.

Not much of a conversation.

But it said a quattuordecillion words.

If you knew what I was mad about, I have no doubt you would understand why I felt the way I did.

And you might even agree with my choice of feedback.

But despite my effort to pull my son aside.

My lecture was way too public.

For me.

And I’m sure for him.

I wasn’t looking for an audience.

And I definitely didn’t need someone to officiate.

But the whole thing ruined the rest of my day.

I can only image what it did to my son.

I’ve never claimed to be the father of the year.

Well there was that blog back in February.

But I really didn’t mean it.

That was sarcasm.

But to publicly make my son feel bad.

Even if the public was just one guy.

That was terrible.

I deserved to be ejected.

The guilt I had was stomach-aching.

The pain I felt was heart-breaking.

I know what I said was right.

I also know the way I said it was oh so wrong.

Being a parent is the hardest job I have ever had.

Well working in that law office was a hard job too.

But they fired me before I did too much damage.

Parenting is the one job that keeps on giving.

Giving you love.

Giving you a headache.

Giving you a second chance.

Or a third chance if you need it.

Fortunately my son bounced back pretty quickly after the tongue lashing.

It took me a lot longer.

But we both moved on.

And enjoyed the rest of our time.

Together.

The timing of my most recent parental failure was especially disappointing.

We had just finished our game against a team from Tennessee.

That was the 15-0 loss.

Honestly it could’ve been 150-0.

They had kids who were big enough to eat our players.

Their third baseman stood six foot something.

Must’ve weighed 200 something.

And he’s 12.

I didn’t see him say a word during our entire game.

He let his bat.

And his glove.

And his right arm.

Do all his talking.

There is no doubt we will see him play for a very long time.

Unfortunately his mom will not.

She was working in the local post office last October.

When a father and son walked in.

With a gun.

They were there to commit a robbery.

When they left, two people were dead.

Including the mother of the third baseman.

We were told they got away with $68.

But they didn’t get far.

Fortunately they were caught.

But that’s hardly a happy ending.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to the third baseman.

I don’t really know what I would’ve said.

But I was thrilled to see his dad at the game.

Cheering.

And smiling.

And supporting his boy.

The way it should be.